


Allison

by TriDom



Series: Rabid Dog [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Heavy Angst, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriDom/pseuds/TriDom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Allison dies Peter is there</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allison

**Author's Note:**

> This series is very choppy. Pretty much heavy angst Peter x Chris

The world has tilted on its axis. Nothing is right and he can't breathe.

The carpet from his bedside table to dresser has worn flat. It’s damp with sweat and pressure.

His daughter is not dead.

He goes to his bedroom door and takes the handle in his palm. Ice laces his lungs. He cannot breathe. His heart is beating with too little blood. It grinds like a motor with too little oil.

If he goes down the hall and sees her bed empty, what will he do?

The walls of silver and white are spinning. It’s a snow storm and he can hear Allison’s voice in the backseat, her little legs dangling against the car seat. He can hear himself yelling at her to be quiet, because he couldn’t think and the world was blurring with snow and ice. He remembered her small lip shaking and Victoria telling her not to cry.

When someone knocks, it sounds like his heart. It is too quiet and slow to be his heart. Then the door comes open and it’s Peter. The world is spinning, but he can see the fear in Peter’s eyes. It’s all come undone and he can taste vomit on the back of his tongue.

If Peter is here-.

His daughter is not dead.

“Chris.”

He cannot breathe, but he can smell Peter as he is pulled in. His skin still smells like wood smoke and lime. Bitter. Sweet.

There is a glint on the metal jam by the door. He breathes in the smell of Peter’s neck as he digs his fingers in enough to feel his shoulder blades beneath his shirt.

“Peter, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Peter says. “I’m sorry.”

Chris tries to push him away, but Peter is stronger. He hardly moves. Struggling against him is like fighting a wall. Then Peter’s fingers are knotted in the back of his hair. The discomfort is physical. His heart is dying and when there is a scream, he doesn’t feel his vocal chords vibrate.

Peter doesn’t let him go. Even when the strength runs from him and he can’t hold up his own weight.

There shouldn’t be any oxygen left in the world. He cannot get it and when he does, it feels like he takes in every molecule in the room. He is suffocating all of them.

He is an Argent and even the world doesn’t want him to breathe. He is selfishly taking everything from betters.

Men who would not train their children into killers before they can smoke.

Marrying a woman for the purpose of bloodlines.

They are barbaric.

They are ill-advised and corrupt.

There is a God and he is punishing Chris.

He has marked him and now he is the only Argent left with his child’s blood on his hands, still selfishly breathing air she can’t have anymore.

Peter’s arms are a cage when he starts to fight again. He can see his own brains on the white carpet and he wants that. He wants those moments he has read people say they regretted pulling the trigger when they botched it. He wouldn’t regret it. He would look at his own gray matter and gape at it like a fish on land, mouthing at bloody air until his neurons no longer fired.

God hated him.

He wouldn’t kill himself right. He would become like Peter, locked in his brain in a catatonic state.

When he screams again, he hears it. There is blood under Peter’s nose. His own knuckles hurt. Peter still holds him, but now they’re on the floor, boxed against the bed and the night stand. Peter’s chest is in his face. It’s all he can see, all he can smell. He knots his fingers in Peter’s shirt and pulls him closer until his own nose hurts.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The words aren’t always in the right order as he repeats them. Sometimes he stutters. Sometimes he chokes on tears, but the words won’t stop. He can see his little girl in the darkness of Peter’s chest with the light closed out. He can see her legs swinging against her car seat while she sang her songs and he can hear himself yell at her.

“I’m sorry.”

How or when they end up on the bed, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember it at all. When they make it there, the light is off and Peter is feeding something between his lips. He takes it without question, dry swallowing before Peter can press the rim of a cup to his mouth.

When he falls asleep, Peter is there, arms around him. He can hear his heart.

 

 

Peter is there when he wakes up.

In all, he stays for eight days.

Peter closes Allison’s door, but doesn’t touch any of her thing in the house. If anyone knows the ghosts that a house of possessions has, it’s Peter.

He floats. Chris is a stone. He floats nowhere. He is dragged behind Peter, to the table, to the bathroom. He forgets he has to pee and his bladder aches until his piss comes out orange and smells of a handover he hasn’t earned.

His body hurts. Peter rubs his back with menthol without him asking. The smell of mint puts him to sleep.

“Allison liked mint in her tea.” Then he starts to cry again.

His piss is orange because he isn’t keeping enough water. Tears leak down his face without him knowing until Peter is brushing them away with his thumb. He wakes with his pillow wet.

“Do I have to go?” he asks.

“Yes, you have to go,” Peter says, fastening a tie around Chris’s neck.

“I don’t want to.” He sounds like a child when he whispers it and then his aching jaw trembles for the tenth time in an hour and he is crying again.

Peter holds him. He doesn’t say anything. He just holds him.

There is no, she would want him to be happy, she would be sad to see him this way, or any of those empty words.

Allison is dead. She wants nothing.

He realizes that when he sees the dirt under the green tarp beside his baby’s casket. People touch him and he hates them. He hates her friends most. The doe-eyed bastard that brought her into all of it, he could gladly kill him. The piece of shit has the nerve to cry and the mole-covered one coddles him.

Chris wants to throw them both in the hole.

When he gets home, Peter is already there. He didn’t see him at the funeral, but he is in a suit.

“Can we kill Scott McCall?”

"Of course we can,” Peter soothes then he makes Chris a sandwich that he later vomits.

They lay in bed at night. The bed he shared with Victoria. Where she was too stubborn and idiotic to realize that life as a werewolf wouldn’t be so bad. He might have loved her once, but her honor had suffocated him. Forcing him to shove a knife through her chest because she had tried to kill a child is too much.

He doesn’t miss her.

He misses Allison.

He’s bitter again that Victoria has her first.

He was always the one that loved her most.

“I’m alone.”

They are laying on their backs when he says it. Chris’s raw eyes burn with salt. They feel like they’re going to swell closed. The grief is a boulder inside of him, the shape of his body. It’ll never come out without killing him.

Peter takes his hand and squeezes it beneath the covers. When Chris tires of looking at the ceiling, he rolls over and Peter pulls him in against his chest.

For a moment, he remembers the smell of Peter’s bed in high school. He can smell smoke and the sound of Peter’s quiet voice, light in his eyes before the world changed. Guilt falls on him like a house when he catches himself smiling in his drug-induced calm.

He falls asleep with tears on his face.

 

 

When it ends, Peter tells him goodbye at the door. He holds him for a long time and Chris doesn’t want to let him go.

He’s too proud to ask. If Peter wanted to stay, he would. The shoulder of Peter’s shirt is wet. He hadn’t realized he was crying again.

“You’re strong,” Peter says, pulling away to wipe away his tears.

“Okay.”

Peter doesn’t tell him he can call, so he doesn’t. But three nights later, nights he comes into Chris’s bed like he had since Victoria.

He does once a week or more. Chris doesn’t lock the front door anymore.

“Do you remember when we skipped class and went to that carnival?” Peter asks one night after Chris had drained his ducts and the pain had lessened after a week of building.

Chris laughs. It scares him.

“I thought the roller coaster would fall apart.”

“It did, three weeks later.” Peter laughs first.

Then Chris can’t stop.

It isn’t funny. He doesn’t ask if anyone was hurt. He doesn’t care. They’re contagious. Peter is a contagion and he can’t stop laughing even when it turns to tears and Peter doesn’t seem surprised. He holds him and neither of them say anything until it has tapered again.

“The cotton candy gave me diarrhea,” Peter said.

“Me too.” Then Chris is giggling again like he was sixteen again and the world is spinning off into a no time there with Peter.

They have lost their minds and for a while, Peter makes him think of stale pain that never stopped aching.

It’s better than thinking of the pain that will never become stale. Peter talks to him in the dark, sliding his fingers through his hair. Peter remembers so much of then, those weeks when they were kids, that it sounds like a lifetime.

Chris listens to him tell it, the way he sells them and himself to Chris and he buys it over and over between his tears. It hadn’t been that happy, but Peter only reminds him of the laughter. He doesn’t sleep unless he has cried himself out against Peter’s chest.

Peter doesn’t leave before Chris wakes up anymore. They eat breakfast together and pretend Chris hadn’t come apart the night before. Everything is wrong, but with Peter it becomes less crushing some nights. The staleness lets him breathe. Peter seems to know and comes around just enough to keep him from suffocating.


End file.
